


Book of Drabbles

by orphan_account



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: 300 (2006) - Freeform, Chronicles of Narnia (Movies) - Freeform, Frank Herbert's Children of Dune (2003) - Freeform, Hex (TV) - Freeform, M/M, Prometheus (2012) - Freeform, Shame (2011) - Freeform, Short Drabbles, Starter for 10 (2006) - Freeform, Wanted (2008) - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-27
Updated: 2014-03-10
Packaged: 2017-11-04 10:05:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 4,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/392621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <span class="small">A series of short Mcfassy drabbles that involve their various incarnations/characters.</span>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Stelios/Leto

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Stelios/Leto Atreides II** \- A stranger arrives on the banks of the River Eurotas.

\--

Stelios does not know what to make of this boy, this foreigner who King Leonidas had welcomed with open arms, hugging him close to his breast as if he were brethren and kissed him full on the face in joyous greeting. 

He’d arrived a hooded figure in nothing but a dingy one man boat, pulling in on Spartan shore with a gliding ease befitting that of ghostly specter; one moment nothing, present in the next.

“Leto of Atreides,” his King tells him, gaze strangely fond as he watched the boy gift his Queen with an exotic flower, the uncanny glow of his eyes shining all the brighter in the light of a setting sun. In the shadows with his King, side by side, Stelios observed in peculiar fascinations as this ‘Leto’ took to his knees in the presence of the young Prince, a kindness in his face as Queen Gorgo allowed for introduction.

“I am entrusting his care to you, Stelios,” Leonidas spoke, his grip vice-like where it clasped Stelios’ bare shoulder, slick as it was with dirt and sweat.

“He is precious to me, to Sparta. Let no harm come to him.”

With his King’s hard stare still boring into him, both serious and trusting, the significance of his words portrayed in the graveness of his tone; Stelios felt his heart begin to swell with pride.

Above all others, among those that were faster, stronger, smarter - his King had chosen him with such an important task, an honor made more significant by how close this duty lay to Leonidas’ heart.

Nodding his head in acquiescence, he glanced over to where his new charge lounged on a stone step, listening with pleasant patience as Pleistarchus regaled him with some fanciful tale and sharing a quick, entertained look with Queen Gorgo as she watched on with thinly veiled amusement.

“I will not fail you.”

\--


	2. David 8/David 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **David 8/David 9** \- David 9 (or Niner, as he preferred to be called and really, wasn't that part of the problem?) is quite a strange android.

\--

“State your designation.”

“Did you mean my name?”

David 8 pauses, looks up from his tablet to analyze the android sitting on the medical slab.

“Yes,” he states after moment, fingers moving swiftly over the keypad. “Your name.”

The android’s facial expression appears to light up somewhat, a beaming smile as though being asked his name genuinely made him happy. David 8 quickly makes note of the reaction.

“Niner. My name is Niner. And you are?”

David 8 doesn’t acknowledge the question, just nods and type’s in the other’s reply before placing the tablet down. 

Peter Weyland’s motivations for bringing aboard an unregistered android onto Prometheus was baffling, his apparent need to hide said android’s existence on the ship even more so.

Niner’s presence was a mystery, a puzzle, one unlikely to be solved until the Waylend Corp. President himself awakened from the Cyro Pods, an event not due for another 10 months of travel.

It’s just been David 8 for sometime now, caring for the health of the sleeping crew, keeping Prometheus in working order, trajectory always aligned.

It’s dull work, repetitive and David has been stretching his mind for months now looking for ways to occupy himself.

But now, now there was Niner, the enigma sitting not a meter from him, watching David curiously with vivid blue eyes, his head tilted to the side in a remarkably human manner; manufacturer unknown, purpose unknown.

And David 8 has always found some form of satisfaction in a good puzzle.

\--

Three hours later, David 8 is looking down into his scanner with nothing short of wonder, eyes glued to the sight of Niner’s inner circuitry lighting up on the screen in intermittent pulses of electrical energy.

“What is that?”

Niner simply smiles, an innocuous little thing that shouldn’t be anything but a cheap imitation but looks more natural on his face than any human one David 8 has ever encountered.

He takes one of David’s hands gently into his own, brings it slowly to the middle of his chest so that David’s palm lies flat against his synthetic skin, still smiling.

“It’s my heart.”

\--


	3. Azazael/Brian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Azazael/Brian Jackson** \- A servant gained.

\--

Azazael gave an irritated huff, exasperated by the little mortal’s childish behavior. Standing up gracefully, he dusts off the lapels of his jacket, pausing a moment before straightening the cuffs of hid dress shirt just for good measure.

“It’s late,” he states matter of fact, purposefully looking elsewhere from the tempting boy curled up on the couch, “I shall retire to my chambers.”

Brian seems to perk up at that, drowsiness long forgotten, as he quickly sits up, his gaze appealingly attentive and Azazael has to quell the urge to reach out, to cup that endearing face in the palm of his hand as though he could feel the weight of Brian’s attention.

“Did yo-,” Brian falters momentarily before quickly regaining his bearings. “Your chambers, is that, well, are they part of my new… duties?”

The words drag forth a litany of imaginings to the forefront of Azazael’s mind, knee buckling in their obscene potency. He has to fight to push them back, clamping down on crude visions of swollen red lips, of brown dusted nipples and the delightful tremble of quivering pale thighs; locking it all down with cruel efficiency.

Calmed down, Azazael throws a scathing look over his shoulder, overcompensating for his initial reaction with disgust, adamant to hide the true affect his new servant had upon his person.

He is not surprised by the look of relief that flashes across Brian’s face at his wordless answer, the boy’s tense shoulders easing at Azazael’s apparent rebuff.

The glimmer of disappointment in the other’s eyes as he slumps back into the couch, however, catches him completely off guard.

\--


	4. Stelios/Mr.Tumnus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Stelios/Mr.Tumnus** \- King Leonidas and his men, while grateful, seek to understand how their wounds heal so quickly after a night's rest. Stelios discovers the answer.

\--

Mr. Tumnus swiftly and silently tended to the sleeping Spartans, his hooves unnaturally silent against the solid rock of the mountain, scarcely making a sound as he navigated the injured. With Pan's gift at his side - a satchel of healing baum created by the God Asclepius himself - he was appointed the privilege of tending to Ares' favored warriors, aborting the beginnings of their fevers, lay waste to infections and mend their every wound. 

It was a duty Mr. Tumnus felt honored to enact.

Every night he came to the side of each warrior - no man less worthy than the other - and inspected them from head to toe. There was no wound too small, no nick or scratch unseen to, not even the cracked heels borne from long days of travel in the dry heat could escape his healing touch.

He was just treating the last of the mortals -all lulled asleep to the sweet tunes of his flute- when it happened. 

Mr. Tumnus was leaning over one of the men (very handsome for his kind, Tumnus supposed, cheeks uncommonly warm), dipping into his satchel to treat the long gash running over the man's prominent abdominal muscles, the familiar feeling of accomplishment stirring in his belly as he watched the skin surrounding the slice begin to knit neatly together. So it was that he was completely unprepared for the large hand that darted out, quick as a whip, and wrapped long fingers around his wrist in a vice-like grip, drawing forth a frightened bleat from his lips as he was pulled into the chest of the man he had just been healing, his curly head of hair forced under the mortal's chin. 

Fear made his heart quicken, all manner of atrocities skimming past his mind in quick succession and he began to struggle against the man (who was larger than his own faun self by a terrifying margin), striking out with his free hand as he fought to rise from his padded knees and onto his hooves where he could claim greater purchase. All acts of defiance were thwarted when the grip on his wrist constricted until Tumnus swore his bones were grinding against each other. He let out another whimpering bleat and then stilled, defeated.

Relief flooded him as the grip loosened - enough for it to no longer be painful but still firm, as good as iron.

It took a few moments for Tumnus to realize that the Spartan was chuckling, a low rough sound that rumbled from his chest where Tumnus' face had been forcefully pressed up against. A harsh exhale of breath ghosted one of Tumnus' sensitive ears, the appendages twitching as a shiver of panic wracked down his body; the fur of his legs beginning to prickle and rise.

"Caught you," the man whispers, quiet and amused.

\--


	5. David 8 & bb!Charles (Gen)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **David 8 and bb!Charles** \- A small act of kindness.

\--

Blue eyes blink up at David 8 cautiously as the android politely lifts the plastic packet from out beneath the young Xavier’s hands, extending a small, composed smile in peace offering to ease the sudden tense set of the child’s shoulders. David’s data suggests that he should have asked before simply plucking the lolly packet out of Charles' grip and he reprimands himself for failing to do so.

Reassured that his charge was no longer ill at ease, David peers down curiously at the plastic packet in hand, the one Charles appeared to be having some trouble opening. After a brief inspection, it becomes obvious as to why the boy had been having difficulties: the adhesive used to seal the bag closed was a layer too thick on both ends, a lot more than strictly necessary and enough to give a eight year old some trouble - but by no means a mean feat to open for an android. Nodding in triumph, David swiftly pries the top open with pinched fingers and then carefully places it back on Charles’ blanketed lap.

The smile he gets in reward for his small effort is almost blinding.

“Thank you, Mr. David,” the boy says, cheeks taking on a rosy hue - and in that moment David suspects that his sense of accomplishment is a great deal more ample than the task actually warranted, his generator humming appreciatively.

Nodding once in welcome, David rises from his kneel on the floor gracefully and promptly positions himself behind the wheelchair’s push handles. Moving forward, they resume their journey.

“Your father’s lab is close, Mr. Xavier," David says, "only two more corridors, an elevator and another corridor to the left.”

Charles makes a sound that David assumes is acknowledgment - but it’s hard to be sure, considering that the boy’s mouth was stuffed full of assorted colored jelly beans.

\--


	6. Connor/Brian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Connor/Brian _(fishtank/starter for 10)_** \- Drunk  & Dirty

\--

Connor can’t quite remember how he got here: locked in a slumming toilet cubicle with his jeans caught around his knees as Brian drives him mad, reducing his words to mindless, animalistic grunts as the boy rocks back and forth on Connor’s lap like riding cock was his fucking profession.

He vaguely recalls something about a pub, a couple of coworkers inviting him out for a drink. Brian being there had come as bit of a surprise, sitting across the bar with a couple of mates; drunk, laughing. 

One of the kid’s friends’ has a whiny voice and is far too loud; the other sits too close, touches Brian frequently; his hands, his shoulders, his _neck_ \- Connor remembers the silent haze of rage at that, possession and jealousy wrapping around his mind like a familiar lover, the glass in his hand developing a hairline crack.

Then waiting. Watching. Seizing the opportunity when it presented itself, waving off his colleagues as he follows the boy to the loo, stumbling slightly.

And now he’s here, bare-assed on the lid of a toilet seat, sharing sloppy kisses between the boy’s fevered whispers of ‘ _come on, come on_ ’ as they try and create some kind of rhythm from their frenzied thrusting. 

It’s too much and too little at the same time; Brian’s thighs squeezing either side of his hips with every slick, downward slide; they way his breath hitches when Connor is buried to the hilt inside him; Connor’s name dripping like honey from between reddened, abused lips. Fuck, there is so much Connor wants to do to this boy, so much he wants to do for him - anything and everything, something he doesn’t dwell on for it’s impications - but for now he just settles for rucking up Brian’s modest jumper, gripping those pales hips tightly and nuzzles his face into the crook of his boy’s neck, intending to reach his peak with the taste of Brian’s skin on his tongue.

\--


	7. Brandon/Wesley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Brandon/Wesley:** First kiss. 

\--

He gets Sissy set up in a private rehabilitation just outside of the city, thinks maybe seeing less pavement and more green grass can only help at this point. Brandon doesn’t visit, but these days he actually answers when she calls. She calls rarely.

Things change, after. The cravings that once burned hot in his blood that he once believed were undeniable slowly begin to pitter out, as though throwing out all his gear was a mark for reform, an indication. It isn’t. Eventually, over time, the urges abandon him, yes, but with their absence he is forced to confront what is supposedly left of himself. 

The answering void scares him like nothing ever has. Lust, anger, addiction; they ate at his focus, his concentration, kept him distracted from the realization of just how much he barely feels at all. There is a cog in the works and everything is shutting down, lights flickering off in the wake of a deep seated apathy that Brandon just can’t shake, doesn’t even try half the time.

David notices, of course. Somewhere between the refusals of after work drinks and the dead look in his eyes must have tipped him off. Regardless, David suggests Brandon get out of town for awhile, take a breather and clear his head - he flies him over to the Chicago branch for a couple of weeks to ‘oversee’ the proceedings and attend meetings that are of little to no consequence and only serve to bore him endlessly. It’s the thought that counts.

But then, suddenly, there’s the boy. Man. _Him_.

Shirt cuffs speckled with blood, vivid and red; cheeks soft and pink; eyes bright and blue - he is the first dash of colour in Brandon’s otherwise bleak and desolate world.

The man pushes past the elevator doors and Brandon can only stare as the other man flashes him a grin, unbridled and dangerous, looking all the more manic with half a bloody - literally, _bloody_ \- keyboard clasped in one hand as the doors shut and the lift resumes it’s descent.

That one glance is all Brandon is paid, his lift mate paying him no mind aside from that one instance. There is no such abandonment on Brandon’s part, enraptured as he is. The other man’s presence fills the small area with an energy that quickens Brandon’s pulse and leaves his hair on edge. 

He’s short and compact, dark hair just long enough to curl childishly away at the base of an elegant but sturdy neck and Brandon wishes he could just look away, away from this blood stained stranger and his ridiculous butternut freckles.

He doesn’t. 

Instead, he ventures to make conversation, asks "Bad day?" with an indicative not to the wrecked keyboard for the lack of anything better to say.

The man glances towards him, just the faintest flash of blue before his grin broadens if that was all at possible.

“One of the best, actually,” the man replies, voice turning coy as he gives Brandon a double take, sucking a plump bottom lip into his mouth as he gives Brandon an unsubtle once over.

And then he continues with, “You could make it better, though,” and suddenly that  lip Brandon was so ardently paying attention to is pushed up against his, soft and lush and perfect, and it feels, it _feels_ —

It feels like breathing again.

By the time Brandon opens his eyes again they’ve arrived on the ground floor: the doors are open, the man is gone, and Brandon’s world returns to grey.

\--


	8. Michael/James

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Michael/James:** In which student!Michael is persistent and teacher!James is long suffering

\--

“Did you need help packing up, James?”

James clenches his jaw at Michael’s words (of course it’s Michael, when is it ever _not_ Michael), withholding a shudder at the feel of warm breath tickling the back of his ear accompanied by the enticing lilt of that accent. Taking a deep breath, he tightens his grip on the eraser and steps forward, attempting to escape the warm heat of his student’s body.

“It’s Mr. McAvoy,” James replies sternly, regaining his bearings now that there was some distance between them. “And no,” he continues, resuming his wipe down of the blackboard “I’m fine.” 

James isn’t normally so curt with any of his students, but he’s well aware of Michael’s infatuation with him - the lingering looks at his lips, the darkening of his gaze when James leans up against the teacher’s desk - it’s quite obvious; but more than that James is well aware of his increasingly inappropriate reactions to said student’s attention, the curl of attraction flowering in his gut becoming harder and harder to ignore with every passing day - which is why he needs to nip this in the bud, so to speak, before Michael’s advances become too tempting to ignore.

_‘Treat em’ mean, keep em’ keen’_ is the stupidest saying James has ever come across in his 30 years, and in this instance he’s hoping for something more along the lines of: Treat em’ mean and hopefully they’ll get the picture and **back the hell off**. 

If _only_.

Michael is crowding his space again in a heart beat, the sudden harsh press of the teen’s chest and hips forcing James face first into the wall with a startled yelp, eraser dropping from his hand as he uses his forearms to brace against the board, gasping as strong hands clutch at his hips tightly; not hard enough to leave marks but their intent clear. James pushes against the hold, struggling for struggles sake, and then freezes, both dread and excitement pouring into his system when Michael angles his hips against James’ ass so that the bulge of his cock is obvious.

“I’m going to ask one more time, _Mr. McAvoy_ ,” Michael whispers, and the words are barely discernible with his nose nuzzling into the crown of James’ dark curls. The younger male then rubs himself against James once, a long rough glide against James’ ass that has them both groaning. “Are you sure you don’t need my help?”

It takes more than that to convince James, in fact, it takes precisely three more thrusts and a brush to his nipple before a string of consents begin to tumble from his mouth.

\--


	9. Michael/James

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Michael/James** \- Michael is setting up a shoot but gets distracted by a thoroughly focused James.

The weather is grim outside, overcast and grey - just teetering on the edge of rain. It casts a cool light into the apartment, one that makes James shiver in his simple white tee, goosebumps pebbling along the exposed flesh of his arms.

Michael must have accidentally caught the motion from the corner of his eye, as he abandons the reflector he was fiddling with and turns to where James is reclining on the bed, the only piece of furniture that isn’t currently being used as a prop for Michael’s makeshift scene.

"Sorry, I’ve been meaning to get the heater fixed," Michael says in apology, grimacing.

James pulls his attention away from his latest chapter and simply waves off Michael’s concerns with a smile. “More fool me for not bringing a jacket - I’ll warm up once we get started, I’m sure.”

Michael cants his head in acknowledgment, the gesture accompanied by a small quirk of the lips that James has always found exceedingly charming. It’s a small miracle that Michael is clean shaven today - that half smile in conjunction with that flattering ginger stubble has made James’ knees weak on more than one occasion.

"Besides," James cheerily continues, returning to his pages, "If I get too cold I’ll just duck under the covers, shall I?"

A small clatter and a grumbled ‘shit’ from Michael has him looking up in concern, and he is greeted to the sight of his friend wrestling his foot from a tripod, his ears taking on a strangely pink hue. “You alright?”

"Yeah, yeah," Michael coughs slightly, avoiding James’ gaze. "Just— yeah. Minor, err, mishap." He glances almost shyly in James’ direction and then quickly looks away. Clearing his throat, Michael finally manages to extricate himself from his tripod and without further ado, begins to awkwardly return to setting up the shoot.

"If you’re sure…" 

He receives a noncommittal grunt in reply and supposes he ought to just leave the man to his work.

These shoots aren’t professional although Michael _is_ a very talented and highly sought-after commercial photographer - James just happens to quite conveniently live downstairs, ready and waiting to be plucked from his despairing bubble of debilitating writer’s block and whisked off and arranged in the other man’s apartment whenever inspiration struck. 

"I need a visual aid," Michael had said that first time, pulling an unwilling and cursing James from his apartment at three in the morning.

Apparently the man has never heard of storyboarding. 

_Still_ , James sighs to himself, watching Michael work and admiring the long lines of his body. _It’s not like he’s complaining anymore._

He continues to stare for a couple of minutes before a sudden fear of being caught perving overcomes him. Guiltily dropping his gaze, he returns his attention to his pages. He really does need to review them, he's been over them at least a dozen or so times, constantly editing but still the words just don't sit right. 

It doesn’t take long for him to become absorbed. 

It’s frustrating work, reading his own writing, and he's cringing before he even manages to trudge through the first couple of paragraphs, making mental notes as to which passages he needs to rephrase and useless sentences that need to be struck out entirely. Two pages in and he’s already planning excuses to his editor.

James isn’t sure how much time passes, but the telltale ‘click’ of a shutter going off breaks through his concentration with a jolt - leaving him blinking and confused as though just waking from a dream. 

He glances up from his pages, curious, and immediately rears back when he discovers Michael closer than he thought, the man crouched by the foot of the bed with his camera raised.

"Sorry, sorry," Michael laughs, "I didn’t mean to startle you, you just looked so.." He makes a funny little gesture with his hand in way of explanation but James remains unenlightened.

"Looked so..?" James prompts, but Michael just shakes his head with an odd little smile.

"Just go back to what you were doing, I need to take some test shots."

For a moment James considers ignoring his friend in favour of pursuing the line of conversation but immediately thinks better of it. Acquiescing with a nod, he engages with the folds of his own story once again. It’s a little difficult at first, what with the intermittent ‘click’ of Michael’s camera proving a distraction, but James eventually manages. 

It isn’t until he comes across one truly abysmal paragraph, one that has him ruffling his hair in utter frustration, that he is reminded of Michael’s presence. 

A touch, there - gentle fingers smoothing down the top of his hair.

"Sorry," Michael mumbles when James looks up, his mantra for the afternoon. "It looked out of place."

James just stares, not quite comprehending having the man so close, sitting on the edge of the bed with the camera lying innocently on the coverlet as it’s owner brushes hair away from James’ forehead, tracing his hairline until he’s stroking hair behind his ear - hair James knows for a fact is to short to tuck behind anything. But still, Michael continues the motion.

It seems almost natural for James to lick his lips, to lean forward - to bring himself halfway in tentative invitation. He watches with anticipation as Michael’s eyes widen, fingers stuttering by James’ ear as realisation sinks in.

Then quicker than James can account for, the other man is surging forward, connecting their mouths too quickly, too eagerly that their teeth collide with a mighty ‘clang’.

"Ow, ow," James immediately pulls away, a hand rising to cradle his mouth. Michael looks absolutely mortified.

"Oh my fucking God, I’m so—"

"Lemme guess," James interrupts, unable to keep the laughter from his voice, "You’re sorry?" 

Michael groans, long and despairing, and collapses face first into one of the pillows.

—

Whenever the subject of their first kiss is brought up in conversation, James likes to tease Michael endlessly in front of their peers. Michael doesn’t much mind - why should he when at the end of each instance James tells the story, Michael can just scoop him up and demonstrate to their audience just how much he didn’t fuck it up the second time?


End file.
